The Crutch
by KnightNight7203
Summary: "The crutch doesn't make you who you are. You make the crutch what it is." In which the path of Crutchie's crutch is followed throughout the newsboys' lives.
1. Chapter 1

**In honor of Crutchie's new song - which I ****_really _****hope they leave in till it comes here in November - I decided to write a story centering around him! Since there have been a lot of origin stories for Crutchie recently, I decided to try my own for the first installment.**

**Standard disclaimers apply.**

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><p>The hustle and bustle of the city is something Jack Kelly is used to.<p>

That doesn't mean he likes it – in fact, it's one of the many things, along with the dirt and the weather and the lights, that makes his skin crawl about New York. But it's become as familiar to him as breathing, one of the few constants in his life from birth to the present day.

The rattling of the carriages and shouting of voices across the busy streets works its way into his bones even in the alley he's ducked into to catch a break from the crowds. His papers are stacked between him and the sidewalk, creating more of a barrier between him and the rest of the world, but the noise isn't hindered in the slightest. New York is a roar that demands to be heard, and he knows that it never stops.

He picks absently at a hole worn through his shoe, reading through the front page of the top paper of the stack. The babble of conversations fill his ears, accented by the clacking of horses hooves and the clanging of bells. It makes a jumbled symphony of background noise that his mind barely registers as he pulls his thin vest tighter to block out the chilly wind. But then he hears something that he isn't used to, something that makes his skin tingle and his heart speed up. A panicked cry of fear cuts through the normal sounds of the city like a knife.

The yell comes from further down the alley where he's crouched, so he takes off in that direction, leaving his papers strewn behind him. He ducks behind a crate in a doorway, standing on tiptoe to try to make out what's happening beyond. It's dark and smoky – he's found himself behind some kind of tavern – and he squints into the gloom.

The first thing he makes out is the figure of a large man, brandishing a heavy stick and shouting in a thick accent. He pulls himself a little higher and his eyes finally fall on the subject of the man's wrath – a small, thin boy crouched against the dirty brick wall, clutching a small chunk of bread in his hands.

"You know what we do to thieves here, boy?" the man bellows. "Do you know what thieves deserve?"

The boy scrambles further back along the wall, shaking his head in terror. The piece of bread now lays a foot away from him in the dirt, long forgotten. "I ain't a thief, sir, I swear. I'se was just lookin' to see–"

"LIES!" The stick comes down on the boy with a sickening crack, and Jack topples back from the crate in shock. He's seen violence in the city before, but toward such a small boy? Weak whimpers echoing in his ears, he bolts out from his hiding spot and throws himself in front of the kid.

"Hold up," he says in a trembling voice, holding out both hands in a gesture of surrender. The man turns on him in an instant.

"Have you come to steal from me as well? Is there no end to the street rats crawling all over this city?"

Jack moves in a circle slowly, drawing the man's attention from the boy. "I ain't interested in stealing," he says. "_Sir_. I was coming to apologize for my brother here."

If he'd thought the man's face couldn't get any darker, he was wrong. "That's your brother?"

Jack nods quickly, stooping down to pick up the piece of bread from the floor. "Is this what he took?"

"That's what he took _this time_." He glares at the kid, then spits in his direction. The boy flinches back, staring nervously at the stick in the man's hand. "These brats are always lurking around out here, scavenging. Like rats."

Reaching into his pocket, Jack pulls out his small bag of change and empties it into his palm. He has well over thirty cents there, collected from this past week's sales. "This should cover it all, then," he says, thrusting the coins at the man.

His fat fingers sift through the coins, and Jack can practically see him mulling it over in his head. Finally he sighs, dropping the stick and turning to return to the tavern.

"See that it doesn't happen again," he mutters, shaking his head. And then he is gone.

"Brothers, huh?" The boy's voice is high and weak, but he sounds faintly amused. He's sprawled on the ground, propped up on his elbows. "You thought that up real quick."

Jack shrugs, unsure of what he's supposed to say. "I figured he'd leave ya alone if he thought somebody was taking care of ya."

"It makes sense," the boy admits. He coughs. "Lucky he bought it, though. Must be pretty believable."

Jack crouches beside him, eyeing him nervously. "You hurt, kid?" he asks.

"Nah," is the breathless response as he painfully pushes himself into a sitting position. "I've 'ad worse."

"Yeah, well, you don't look so good." Jack brushes the dirt off the golden surface of the bread and offers it to him. "You hungry?"

"Yeah," the boy says quickly, reaching for it. Suddenly he stops himself, face falling. "But it's yours. You paid for it. And I wasn't lying – I ain't a thief." He sighs, wrapping his arms around his middle. "I swear to God, it rolled right out the window. I was gonna try to give it back when that guy came out an' started freakin' out at me."

"I ate already today," Jack says, and while that's not strictly true, he never claimed he didn't lie. "You take it."

"For sure?"

"Yeah."

The boy eats slowly, which surprises Jack – judging by the sharp angles of his thin face, he hasn't eaten in days, and in his place Jack would inhale the food. Once he finishes, he wipes his hands neatly on his ragged jacket and pulls himself slowly to his feet.

He manages to stand for all of a minute before his leg gives way and he starts to topple to the ground.

Eyes wide, Jack jumps forward and catches him just before he hits the dirt. "Jeez. He hurt you real bad?"

"Nah," the boy says, smiling sadly. "It's this leg of mine. It's always been a little rusty."

Jack can't imagine what it's like for this boy, limping around the streets all by himself. At least he's got the newsies. At least he's got two working legs. He shakes his head, looking around to avoid making eye contact with the kid, when his gaze falls on the stick the man dropped.

"Here," he says, picking it up and handing it to the boy. "I bet this would help you walk." He helps him wedge it under his armpit, then stands back and beckons him forward. "Try it!"

The boy hobbles tentatively forward a couple steps, stumbling at first. Once he gets the hang of it, however, it looks much less painful. His face splits into a huge grin.

"Look at me!" he exclaims. "I've got a crutch! I'm walking!"

"Come on, Crutchie," Jack says playfully. "Why don't you come back to my place, and I'll see if I can get you a bed to sleep in?"

"That sounds great," he says excitedly. Jack starts off walking slow, but the boy manages to keep up at a normal pace just fine. He's a natural with the crutch. He even carries some of Jack's papers, and more than a couple women buy one from him (out of sympathy, Jack thinks, but the boys claims it's personality).

Race eyes them suspiciously when they burst in the door, laughing and talking loudly about their success. Between the two of them, they only have three of the original twenty papers left.

"What are you doing, Kelly?" he demands.

"I told him I'd try to get him a place to stay," Jack says by way of explanation. His voice is authoritative, and no one argues – he's only thirteen, but he is one of the oldest already. Henry and Finch move over to make room for the new kid on the lumpy sofa right away.

"Got a name, kid?" Specs asks, readjusting his new glasses.

"Sure do," he says immediately, meeting Jack's eyes and smiling. "You can call me Crutchie."

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><p><strong>What do you think? Should I continue? I have a couple other ideas, including one in the Refuge . . . Reviews are confidence boosters!<strong>

**Much love,  
>KnightNight7203<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**You guys can thank TeamJacob1998 for this, I definitely needed a little motivation to write something before going to bed. :) But my portfolio will be done in a couple of days and then I'll update everything else, I promise!**

**Standard disclaimers apply.**

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><p>If Crutchie had allowed himself to entertain the possibility that Jack would find him in the Refuge, come to visit him while he was locked away, he would have thought it would happen in the dead of night.<p>

There would be a tap at the window, the older boy would somehow work the bars from the frame and climb carefully inside, and they'd have a hushed conversation punctuated by nervous glances at the heavy wooden door, the risk of being caught terrifying and yet somehow thrilling, too. Jack could turn even this into an adventure, Crutchie was sure. He'd certainly managed to do it when he was locked up himself.

He should have known Jack Kelly isn't in the habit of doing what others expect. The tap comes in the early afternoon, just after their meager meal of bread and broth, when the other boys are still downstairs cleaning up.

"Hey, kid." Jack's voice is soft but not a whisper, and it sounds hoarse, like he didn't sleep much. Crutchie has no idea how Jack knew he'd be here rather than downstairs with everybody else. By rights he should be – it was only after his leg collapsed out from under him the third time that Snyder had another boy drag him upstairs to the room where they slept. But Jack always knows, and Jack is always there for him. Of course he would be here now.

"Hey, Jack," Crutchie says brightly, beaming. He tries to stand, to move to the window where Jack is crouched on a steep ledge that lines the building, but his smile morphs into a grimace as soon as he puts weight on his leg. He plops back down on the bed before Jack can notice his discomfort. But Jack notices anyway, of course.

"How bad is it?"

Crutchie thinks for a minute that maybe he can tell him how bad it is. Maybe he can admit his pain for once, and maybe it will feel better if he can share the burden with someone else. But Jack's face is pale and drawn, with dark circles under his eyes in addition to the bruises that pepper his skin, and he can't bring himself to add any more pain to that mournful expression.

"It ain't so bad. I think it's the weather more than anything." He eyes the overcast sky in mock frustration. "My joints never feel quite right when it rains."

"If you say so, kid." Crutchie knows Jack is humoring him, that he doesn't believe him for a second, but he doesn't know what else he can say. "This is all my fault–"

"Did you get my letter?" It doesn't really matter, but Crutchie wants to change the subject. He can't stand it when Jack acts like it's his duty to protect everyone he ever knew. He just wasn't fast enough, and that was nobody's fault but his own. "Specs said he'd find ya . . ."

Jack smiles weakly. "Yeah, I got it, kid."

"What'd ya think?"

"I think your writing's real impressive, for sure."

"And my plan? Did you like my plan?"

"I sure did." Jack takes a deep breath, frowning like he's about to say something unpleasant. "I don't think you should try it, though."

Crutchie sighs. "Probably not."

"I mean, it's great and all," Jack says quickly, as if afraid he'll hurt his friend's feelings. Crutchie wishes he wouldn't. He's not a little kid anymore – Jack doesn't have to pretend for him. "But if something would go wrong – if they would get to you before you could get away – it ain't gonna end well, kid. I ain't – I ain't gonna be bringin' you back to the lodging house in a box."

Crutchie snorts, which brings a brief twinkle back to Jack's eyes. It might just be tears, but he doubts that – Jack doesn't cry. "I ain't gonna die, stupid. Don't be a moron."

A year or two ago, he'd never talk to Jack – his brother, his leader – like that. But now he thinks joking might cheer him up, and he knows something he says won't make him mad, especially not when he's locked in here. "I'm gonna get outta here – the legal way – and we'se gonna beat Pulitzer and Snyder, and then we'se gonna go away somewhere, Jack. Just like we said."

"Okay, kid. Okay."

He wishes Jack's eyes wouldn't go back to being sad so quickly.

"I found this on the street." Jack holds up his bent wooden crutch, which just barely fits through the bars. When Crutchie stretches, his fingers just barely close around the end. He takes it, staring at it with mild disgust. Sure, it helps him walk. But it reminds him that he can't on his own, too.

"Thanks." Crutchie grimaces, shoving it away. "I wasn't exactly walking when they brought me in here. Still wouldn't be much good, really–" He gestures hopelessly to his leg and sighs. Jack's already guessed how bad it is, anyway. He's not an idiot.

"I'm gonna get you outta here, kid. I swear, I will."

"I ain't worried, Jack. I trust you. Everything will work out the way it's supposed to."

Jack raises an eyebrow skeptically. "Then why're you looking so down all of a sudden? You were all smiles when I got here. I ain't sayin' you can't be upset – God, you have every right to be – but–"

"It's this dumb thing," Crutchie admits slowly, kicking the crutch even further away from him. "I'm sick of it. It's not that I ain't grateful, I just–"

"I get it," Jack says quickly, maybe sensing how close Crutchie is to tears himself. "We all got stuff that reminds us of how things could be different."

"What's your stuff, Jack?" Crutchie demands. As he expected, Jack remains silent. He shakes his head, looking at the ground.

"That's what I mean. Looking at you, you'd never even be able to tell there's things you're afraid of. Without this damn thing, I'm nothing. I can't get around, I can't make a living. I ain't even got a name."

Jack's pressed against the bars now, fingers threaded through as if straining to get close enough to comfort the younger boy. Crutchie knows that if he was in the same room, he'd be smothered in a hug so tight he couldn't breathe – Jack's never exactly understood the concept of personal space. "The crutch doesn't make you who you are," Jack says forcefully, his voice so full of emotion that Crutchie finally looks up and meets his eyes. "You make the crutch what it is."

"The hell are you talking about?"

"I just mean–" Jack shakes his head, unsure of how to put his thoughts into words. "I don't know. If Katherine were here, she'd know the right– I just mean, we don't look at you and think of the crutch. We look at the crutch and think of you."

"Aw. A skinny chunk of wood reminds you of me?" Crutchie smiles gently at Jack's frustrated expression and moves to grab the crutch back off the bed. He holds it in his lap, not quite so upset with it anymore. "You really like that reporter girl, huh?" he asks, hoping to cheer his friend up with a happier topic. He doesn't want Jack to leave here upset and worrying about him.

The distraction seems to work – Jack blushes and turns away, rubbing his neck awkwardly. "I ain't got a clue what you mean, kid. She's just doin' her job and I'm just doin' mine. Once this damn thing is over, I doubt we'll ever–"

The sound of footsteps saves Jack from having to come up with a coherent response. His head jerks toward the door, eyes widening. "Crutchie, I gotta go–"

"I'll see ya, Jack." With a smile that isn't really forced at all, Crutchie balances precariously on his good leg and hops haltingly to the window, aided by his trusty crutch once more. Jack reaches out to steady him when he gets there, squeezing his arm like he's trying to infuse his own strength – though it doesn't look like he has much – into the younger boy. Crutchie gently pushes him away from the window, trying to get him to leave.

"You can't get caught here, Jack," he says urgently. Jack starts to slowly lower himself from the roof, until he's holding himself suspended in the air with only his arms. "I'll see ya in the lodging house before long, just you wait."

"Okay kid," Jack murmurs, and with one final, guilty glance over the ledge, he's gone.

The door bangs open and kids enter slowly into the room. It's the younger ones, boys around Romeo's age, Crutchie thinks, and their expressions are dejected. Judging by the bruises and tear streaks on some of their faces, he guesses they encountered some of the bigger, meaner boys in the hallway.

"What's the matter, kid?" he asks a particularly small boy who's still crying, halting little sobs shaking his thin shoulders.

"I was trying to help, but the dish broke, and some kid dragged me out in the hallway–" he buries his face in Crutchie's shirt. Crutchie holds him tight, wondering what Jack would do. He has to find a way to protect these boys. Right now, he may be all they've got.

"What do you say, boys?" Crutchie asks the kids gathering in the room. They look at him curiously, eager for anything that might make them feel a little better. "Want to teach these bullies a lesson?"

The cheers that follow his question make him feel that maybe he's not totally useless locked away in here. After all, if he can't be with Jack, he can at least try to be like him – helping those who need it and offering support where there would otherwise be none.

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><p><strong>Reviews are confidence boosters. Let me know if you catch any mistakes - I am currently very tired and probably missed some things. :)<strong>

**Much love,  
>KnightNight<strong>


	3. Chapter 3

**Um . . . oops? Please don't hate me?**

**Standard disclaimers apply. I accept no responsibility for emotional damage.**

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><p>"Where on <em>Earth<em> have you been?"

He hears her before he sees her, his Katherine – he was so busy watching the sidewalk for cracks and loose stones that he hadn't even thought to inspect the house for signs of his wife. But she's there, as he knew she would be.

She's stationed on the porch, backlit by the lamp, her arms crossed threateningly in front of her. He can tell by the look on her face that she knows Davey's been home for hours – hell, Sarah was probably on the phone with her the second she heard the doorbell ring. Her eyes are ringed by dark circles and she's bone-thin, far paler than when he left her.

But God, she looks beautiful. His angel.

"I've been _waiting_ for you . . ." Her voice is high pitched, and cracks in the middle of the sentence. But she doesn't have to wait any longer.

It's been two years, but somehow they still fall towards each other with more force than gravity. He's not sure who's holding up who. She still smells like ink and flowers, just like he remembered, and he wonders absently if she can still detect the scent the gunpowder on his skin. Sometimes he thinks he can still feel it resting there, heavier than all the smog in New York that he used to revile. He'll never complain about his city again, not when he's seen so much worse.

"Hell, I missed you, Ace." His voice breaks, but he doesn't care. She's always fixed him when he was broken before; there's no reason she would refuse to do so now. Anyway, he doubts she even noticed. She's far too busy clinging to him with a desperation he can't even begin to describe.

She doesn't know whether to laugh or hit him or cry, so she does some combination of both that starts with angry tears and ends with a long kiss. While he's been no stranger to breathlessness in his time away, his lungs all too often constricting in fear or anticipation, he hasn't felt _this_ effect in quite a long while. He kisses her again, until the world is spinning and they both have to pull away lest they lose their balance and fall.

"I missed you too," she murmurs, over and over again, her nose buried in his freshly-washed collar and her body slack against his. It hurts, but he'd never tell her that. He just pulls her closer, his fingers digging into her thin shoulders, trying to reassure her that she's not dreaming, he's here. It's over.

He tells her as much. "It's over. Ace, it's _over_." It's a promise he's waited a long time to say.

She sniffs loudly, clearing her throat. "I put the kids to bed ages ago," she says softly, stroking his hair back from his face. What does she think of the new scars there? "They wanted to stay up but it just got so late–"

"Honest, I woulda been home hours ago, Ace." He feels so guilty that he forced her to wait these extra hours, disappointed his children yet again. But it's something he had to do. "I just had to tell Crutchie I was back, and I knew once I got here I wouldn't want to leave ever again."

She turns back toward the house, shaking her head but unable to scold him for that, and he moves to follow her. That's when he sees the subtle movement of her eyebrows deepening in a frown, and knows she's noticed it.

He's limping.

It takes a second for it to register, but when it does she starts panics immediately. "Oh my God, are you all right?" she demands. "You said in your letters that you were fine! What happened?"

"It ain't a big deal," he mutters, though the statement is undermined by the fact that he loses his balance and has to sit down on the front step. "Just gimme a minute."

"Jack." There are tears in her eyes now, and she grabs his hand and holds it tight. He's not sure who she's reassuring, him or herself. She's looking anywhere but his leg, he can't help but notice. Is it because she doesn't want to make him any more uncomfortable, or because she's afraid of it?

"Sorry."

She makes a sound very similar to a growl. "Please don't start this now. Not after everything. Tell me what happened."

"Just some explosion. I saw it was about to blow, an' there was a bunch of soldiers there. They were so young; just kids, really. They reminded me of– I had to get them out–"

"Of course you did." She cradles his head against her chest. "I would expect nothing less."

"Only, I wasn't quite fast enough, and it went off, and–"

"And what?" Her arms are still around him, though they're shaking now, but he pushes away suddenly. "Jack?"

He looks away. "There ain't much the doctors could do. They said I ain't gonna walk real good again . . ."

"Did you save the boys?" she asks gently. He nods. "Then there you go. We'll deal with the rest."

"For sure?" he chokes out, leaning back into her again. She shakes her head forcefully.

"For sure. I'm so proud of you, Jack. I can't even imagine what–"

He cuts her off with a kiss, deep and filled with everything they'd missed for two years. "Don't even try to, please. Just don't."

Unlike in the past, she doesn't push it.

They make it to the living room before they collapse – this time on purpose – in a tangle of limbs and fabric. At first it's clear she's worried about hurting him further, but that quickly fades. They are quick and quiet – the children are sleeping upstairs, and they're both exhausted already. But Jack is so glad to be close to her again – he could hold her in his arms forever and not even notice the passing time.

When he starts to walk back to the kitchen after, though, his leg gives out again and she has to practically carry him to a chair. He tries to hide the frustration from his face, but he knows she sees it anyway. She's always been able to see right through everything he does.

"I'll be right back," she murmurs, placing a gentle kiss on the top of his head and disappearing down the hall to the closet. When she emerges again, she has something long and wooden clutched in her hands. He takes the crutch carefully, almost reverently, and sets it in his lap.

"He'd have wanted you to have it," she murmurs, and he swallows, blinking rapidly and avoiding eye contact. His face is so sad all of a sudden, more somber even than when he found out Race was trying to take his place in the draft.

"I dunno, Ace," he whispers, his voice breaking. "It ain't really _me_, is it?"

But the next morning as he comes downstairs to greet the children for the first time in two years, newsboy cap back on his head where it should be, he's leaning on it as naturally as if he'd been doing it forever. And he might not be able to admit it, but he's glad this little memory of his friend remains to help him carry on.

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><p><strong>Don't worry, this isn't going to be the last chapter or anything (though they won't be in chronological order after this). Well, it <strong>**_was_**** going to be, but my lovely new reviewer rachelelizabeth-p wants more in between the last two chapters, and I realized it would be very cruel to leave it on this depressing note . . . In my defense, I've read that real-life Crutchie did not live very long, and think about it - it is very likely that Jack would have been drafted for WWI . . . So sorry, but it was bound to happen eventually. Please don't hate me?**

**On the subject of reviewers, I want to apologize to everyone who has reviewed anything in the past couple of weeks, because I replied to very few of you. Life got way crazy with all the college application and band stuff I had to do, so I am very, very sorry. Please don't be afraid to review now, because I will definitely reply to anything I receive in the future! I'm back for good now, hopefully! And reviews are confidence boosters!**

**Oh, one more thing - the thing about Race trying to take Jack's place was something I saw on tumblr, and is definitely not my idea (though I am unreasonably in love with it, hence it's appearance in this story). So if it's yours, please let me know and I will absolutely give you credit (or take it out if it angers you for any reason). Thanks!**

**Much love,  
>KnightNight<strong>


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